


Songbird

by QueenForADay



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Boys In Love, But Jaskier Seems To Understand Just Fine, Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Established Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Fluff, Geralt Doesn't Know How To Word, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Mentioned Eskel (The Witcher), Mentioned Lambert (The Witcher), POV Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Short One Shot, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Soft Jaskier | Dandelion, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Touch-Starved Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-19
Updated: 2020-05-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:34:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24262159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenForADay/pseuds/QueenForADay
Summary: He actually quite likes the sound of Jaskier’s voice.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 20
Kudos: 409
Collections: Best Geralt





	Songbird

He actually quite likes the sound of Jaskier’s voice.

Not that he would ever let the bard know that. Gods above, he would never hear the end of it. Jaskier is already a sizeable pain in his arse. He doesn’t need his ego inflated.

When the bard started shadowing him, he would ramble on and on and on about nothing at all. Geralt learned how to block it out after a time. He spent too many years by himself; silence was a friend of his. If he ever felt the need to speak, it was always to Roach.

But Jaskier never seemed to stop talking. He always had something to say about something; whether it was how nice the morning was once they were up and walking, or how something entirely mundane about a town they were travelling through reminded him about Oxenfurt.

He’s never been to the Academy. He never saw a reason to visit the professors and their dusty books and eager students vying to be recognised as better than the rest. But from how often Jaskier spoke of the Academy, he feels like he’s spent years there. He knows the names of pretty much every professor, their assistants, and a fair few of the students. Anyone and everyone who has ever come into contact with Jaskier, the bard had a story to tell about all of them.

He spends most of his breath leering about a troubadour of Cidaris. Geralt hopes that the darkness that has settled around their camp can hide the smile threatening to pull on his lips. The bard has a way with words, but with how he speaks of the troubadour, his vocab is...particularly colourful.

When they spend their nights in the taverns – costing some gold and a performance from the bard – Geralt stays nearby. He’s usually buried in a plate of stewed meat and vegetables, or washing down a tankard of ale.

It’s only on those nights does he realises that, while he doesn’t care much for the words that come out of the bard’s mouth when he’s talking, Geralt finds himself tuning into his songs and lyrics. He sits in a corner of the tavern, head down, but blanching when he realises that his fingers are tapping along to the music. He looks up, wondering if the bard ever sees. He’s often too lost in his own performance, getting people to sing along with him, or starting a dance to the other side of the tavern.

He quite likes Jaskier’s singing. He likes Jaskier’s songs. Not _Toss a Coin_. No, he can go the rest of his days without hearing that one ever again, thank you very much. It doesn’t help at all when, when Jaskier leaves him for the winter, preferring to take up shelter within Oxenfurt, Geralt still hears the damn song in taverns and inns because every bard from Kovir to Nilfgaard is intent on adding their own spin on it.

Even when they’re wandering the roads, and he’s plucking the strings of his lute, trying to thread a song together, Geralt listens. Soft, mumbled words tumble out of Jaskier’s mouth. He likes those. He likes watching the bard’s nose scrunch when he doesn’t think a sentence or phrase will work. He likes when Jaskier looks up at him, wandering closer to Roach’s side, and asks him his opinion about a rhyme. As if _Geralt_ of all people would know how to string words together.

Their first night spent together, in the same bed, limbs entangled and bare skin touching, something tumbles out of Jaskier’s throat. Geralt’s almost asleep; his bones are tired from walking, and Jaskier has only proved that he can match a Witcher’s stamina. But just before he slips under, he twitches. Long fingers card and curl through his hair, pulling strands back from his face and neck.

He doesn’t open his eyes. It might stop if he does. Jaskier’s pressed close, keeping the chill of the draft slipping in through the cracks of the tavern’s walls. A song lilts out of his throat – nothing more than some soft hums, some chords Geralt has already heard while out on the road.

And Geralt slips asleep with that on his mind.

When the bard isn’t with him for the winter, when he’s surrounded by the walls of Kaer Morhen and his brothers, loneliness creeps in. Even though Lambert and Eskel fill the keep with as much noise as they’re able to, starting arguments at the dining table or crowing victories in games of Gwent, it never sits right with him.

More often than not, particularly during the deep winter months, when he’s spent a few weeks in the keep already, Geralt stalks off to his room. Not to sleep – he’s finding that sleep is becoming less of a friend to him as the days go by. But he strips and lies in bed and just stares the canopy, waiting for the sun to crawl back up into the sky. It’s all too quiet. Something that had accompanied him on the Path for decades seems now to be a stranger.

The first hint of spring crests one morning. The last of the snow still sticking to the slopes of the mountain begins to slip away. Winds are steadily getting warmer. His skin doesn’t prickle at the cold when he steps outside anymore.

Spring means walking the Path again.

And walking the Path means he can seek out the bard.

He’s never difficult to find. The Continent stretches out for leagues, with mountains and valleys and thick forests and rolling meadows. And Geralt still manages to stumble across his bard before the first sprouts of new spring grass can peek out from the soil.

Jaskier’s performing in a tavern. It seems only fitting to him that the first thing Geralt hears from the man for the new year is the sound of his voice. He’s been working on new works. Wintering in Oxenfurt did him well. When Jaskier spots him over the heads of the crowd, he smiles. And Geralt has to fight his knees from buckling.

 _Lark. Wren. Songbird. Nightingale._ All words he would like to say. But he isn’t Jaskier; the bard who can so effortlessly lace together sentences and songs.

Anything Geralt ever has to say always sticks in his throat, never managing to get out from between his teeth.

But Jaskier seems to understand just fine. His fingers card through Geralt’s hair as if he were spinning cotton and silk. The kisses he places on to the arch of his cheekbone or ridge of his jaw are gently, but enough for any breath to rush out of Geralt’s noise.

The crackling of the hearth’s fire slowly ebbs away. Sleep is crawling towards him; days of wandering the roads suddenly waning his bones.

Jaskier humming softly isn’t helping him stay awake. Geralt pillows his head on the bard’s chest. The hum of his voice just underneath his ear. He tightens the arm strung over Jaskier’s middle, hugging him closer.

There’s a light puff of a laugh. “Did you miss me, then?” Jaskier rumbles.

Geralt’s eyes have slipped shut long ago. He couldn’t lift his lids open even if he tried. Burying his nose into the fabric of Jaskier’s shirt, taking one long intake of the bard’s scent, he hums. 

**Author's Note:**

> Just a cheeky wee fic. Nothing substantial lmao
> 
> tumblrs;   
> yourqueenforayear (personal nonsense and terrible humour) || agoodgoddamshot (writing)
> 
> Kudos & Comments gladly appreciated x


End file.
